The Faded Chronicle
Elias’s hand hovered over the vellum, the quill tip trembling so violently that the ink bled into a dark, weeping blot before he could press it down. He pulled his hand back as if burned, the smell of iron and old dust filling his nostrils, and stared at the stain spreading across the page like a bruise forming under skin. It was the year 1923 in the records, but the ink looked fresh, wet, and...
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